Of Construction and Seduction
by pokemypoke
Summary: Her presence was like caffeine to his bloodstream. "Miyamoto," he breathed. He had planned to go on but suddenly found every word lacking, his mouth hanging, his mind screaming that he had to say something or risk his heart popping loose. "Miyamoto." Written for NeoRocket27. GiovannixMiyamoto. Sensitive subjects. Suggestive situations. Language.


**A/N:** This uh…this got a little weird, not gonna lie. This is still all for NeoRocket27 who isn't the slightest bit weird and all the bit awesome. She requested a Giovanni/Miyamoto piece and well…I GUESS this can be one. It kind of…yeah. But please, PLEASE read her pieces. She's a marvelous, marvelous writer and a true joy of a person. Her request truly challenged me – as you'll see with this piece – and though I know it's kind of a fail, I do like some of its motifs, so there's that. And people named after Pokemon characters.

I hope this doesn't make her hate me.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Pokemon #breakingnews

* * *

"I am Giovanni. Leader of Team Rocket."

The sentence sounded strange on his dry lips. The syllables seemed to hang in front of him instead of carry out with the force and the fury he had so often heard fly from his mother's lips. It all felt so suddenly wrong…as if he was committing heresy…as if his mother's laughter lingered in those staunch walls. He frowned, now somewhat disappointed in himself. Straightening his shoulders and staring ahead into the dark, he took in as much air as his lungs could hold.

"I am Giovana…Gia…_I am Giovanni_…and…and _I_ am your leader!"

His intent was to slam his fists into his mother's desk, but he paused too long and the action, along with his words, seemed juvenile in retrospect. Slumping in the leather seat instead, Giovanni ran his smooth hands over his face and focused on the sound of the vacuum droning outside his mother's office. Damn grunt. Giovanni was supposed to be the first person in the office this morning. His eyes still stung with a lack of sleep and his precisely pedicured fingernails begged to be bitten and his ears still throbbed with the white noise outside those double doors. Damn, damn grunt. Damn dirty floor and dirty hands. Striking his straight nails against the desk – mother's desk_, mother's desk _– he began to grind his teeth. Damn. Damn. Damn.

Maybe it was because of the grunt outside or because of his unwillingness to start the day, but he suddenly found himself assaulted with every sound at one horribly cacophonous moment. The ticking of that hellish black clock firmly settled to the wall. The air conditioner humming a whole and horrible tune. The very blood in his veins running and running…though to where he could not tell.

Looking over his shoulder, Giovanni blew air through his nostrils. Only a minute had passed. His mother would have committed genocide by now and there he was dizzy with the dawn spitting in through the hooded windows. For some reason he looked behind himself again as if he had forgotten the time. 5:34. Damn.

Turning back, he lift his bum from the chair only to slide further back into its cold comfort. Had his mother ever know such an hour, he wondered. Had his mother ever leaned too far in her chair…ever awkwardly adjusted as her empire stood on with their flicking eyeballs and their drumming fingertips and their half-cunning grins gunning everything down?

No, he decided. His mother had not. His mother would have belted him for even considering such a fabrication as reality.

Yet it calmed him somehow. After all, she was on vacation and the mere thought of Madame Mother Boss in a one piece by the beach with a Cosmo in her hand was enough to have his face itching with laughter. His mind couldn't help but wander even when he knew she was much more likely helping cold bodies hit the floor rather than throwing her own warm one against the sand. And her skin was so warm. Her palms so sharp and searing against his cheek. Her face near the point of breaking with her screams. She was the core of the earth and yet she expected everything to keep turning with him at the center.

Poor anti-climactic apocalypse.

He blinked. Where was he again? The room went silent and the clicking and the ticking…CLOCK! The clock! He turned.

5:35.

Damn.

He huffed and let his eyes droop. All these papers and pretentions. Flicking through the stack in front of him, he leaned his chin onto his empty palm and felt a bit of panic when his dazed mind allowed his chin to slip and his head to jerk about. Glancing at the doorway, he stared for a while and listened to the vacuum. Zzz…zz…znz…it was so calm…it…had the vacuum gone now? Giovanni attempted to turn his head back around to look at the clock and realized for the first time that he was practically slumped across his desk. Although he was cognizant of fumbling about, all he could feel was the rush of his eyelids as he blinked hurriedly. He clinked his teeth together.

_What_ was he _doing_?

The inside of his left eyelid began to burn. His body, his spirit, and his very conception of time began to hang. Thoughts whirled. A marionette dangling. The blades of his mother's helicopter swooshing without sound. An eye so blue – so tragically stark – that it took his breath away.

"Should you be playing in here, little boy?"

His very muscles seemed to catch aflame at the sight of her, his throat clenching at her voice slivering into his ears – into his heart.

"Oh," she said, smiling lightly. "I'm sorry, darling. I was looking for your mommy."

Her presence was like caffeine to his bloodstream. "Miyamoto," he breathed. He had planned to go on but suddenly found every word lacking, his mouth hanging, his mind screaming that he _had_ to say _something_ or risk his heart popping loose. "Miyamoto."

The normally childish pigtails were worn down in luscious long strands of furious fuchsia. A bulky coat clutched at her neck, just barely gracing her lips as she leaned her chin to simper. He wondered if she was really taking so long to respond or if her return had brought time to a standstill.

If the last time he saw her was any indication, then time certainly wouldn't…

"I'm flattered that you remember me, Vanni." She stood so very still and yet she seemed to grow closer all at the same time. "Has this place really run down so quickly without me? Fu, fu, fu. A damn shame."

The last time.

"You were gone for three months," he said. She stood suspended once more and he realized that he was still slumped over the desk. He shot up, straight and proper, as if whipped.

A little laugh fell from her lips. Whether it was for his action or for a reason completely her own, he could not tell. "You'll have to forgive me. Not all of us were counting."

Damn. His face felt so hot. Too hot. A hot that came with time and must have sparked when she first walked through the door. Whenever that was. With a dart of his eyes, he gasped.

"Seven forty!?"

Her laugh was not so little this time.

"Has it been all that bad since I've been gone? Come now, dear. Tell me where your mommy is."

It was so hard to look into her eyes with the light from the rising sun dancing off her face. He had been so blinded by her that he hadn't even noticed until now.

"Madame Boss is in transit to an undisclosed location," he said stiffly. "She instructed me to stand in for her until her return."

Miyamoto thought a bit before brightening. "She's in the bathroom, isn't she?"

"What? No…_What?_"

"It's the only place that I can see her heading to and allowing her brat boy to stay in charge," she stated simply, her face a serious slab.

Wanting to bash his face against the desk, he contained himself enough to place his right fist against his chin and lean forward. "What do you want?"

That delicate mask faltered a moment and in her eyes – only in her eyes – there was a flit of disillusionment. A spark of panic and then horrible realization hit him all at once in the chest.

_The drug of sleep was a heavy one and he rose to consciousness in pieces. It was his sense of touch that woke him, though it was light and seemed to permeate through his entire sense of being. The smell of rosewater came soft and serene and he shook his head lightly. A pressure came…up…face…lips…and he opened his mouth to groan. It was only when a soft and subtle touch came that he remembered that he had a tongue. He heard the breath whispering above him mere seconds before it hit his mouth. _

_He opened his eyes groggily, slowing recognizing his own body – and another? – plastered against his beige sheets. A face too close to his own pulled back and his mother's protégé stared at him with eyes that he had never seen before._

"_Good morning," she purred, wiggling her hips against his pelvis and smiling an unfamiliar, almost happy smile. _

_To say he was stunned was to put it mildly. He looked about wildly, his memories coming as puzzle pieces. Beginning to release her from hands he had only just noticed bringing to her bare shoulders, Giovanni spotted his wrinkled khakis abandoned by the doorway. Khakis? He hated khakis…he only wore them for…_

_Conferences._

_His mother's longwinded conferences. Miyamoto was seated beside his mother just smirking at him in between his naps and his mother's screams for his attention. When Madame Boss had finally slapped the back of his head, Giovanni had seethed as Miyamoto's cruel mouth turned and took all his attention away from the howling executives._

_He wondered how much time passed between wanting to kill her to wanting her to make him feel alive._

_Whatever high he had been on, it was certainly time to come off of it._

"_Vanni? Vanni? Are you okay?"_

_All her sneers and her cool jeers. All of her icy demeanor and hot, mocking looks. She would have him completely disowned. She would have his inheritance and the life that he had worked so long and so hard to achieve from his mother's ill graces. And now his dignity._

"_What do you want?" he snapped, his attempt at sounding like his mother too much of a success. Miyamoto did not jump or move, but merely sat very quietly with her soft fingertips against his chest. "What do you want, you filthy slut?"_

_She had always been a woman of means and of money. His money. His empire. Himself._

_He expected her wit to cause him to wilt into tears, but she merely slithered down his body and off the bed without a word. A breath caught in his throat at the sight of her so real and so alive and so very, very beautiful. Like a Persian slipping her smooth legs to and fro as she gathered her things and held her head and those girlish pigtails high as she could. _

_She slipped out the door like a ghost. The dull ache in his chest began right when the bold picture of her leaving embedded itself behind his eyelids._

"What do you want?"

Whether he said it again for his own benefit or for hers he could not say. This time there was no recognition. This time she dropped a hand to her heavily covered stomach and tilted her head ever slightly.

"I would like to request a day off." She paused. "A sick day."

He blinked. "You…you're ill? You've never been ill before."

"I missed my apple three months straight, doc," she said, glowing. "So a sick day. In two days…that's Wednesday. I'll take it."

Staring a moment, he shook off the image of her heading out the door again and again and _again_ before dazedly jerking open one of his mother's drawers and shifting through the papers. "Form is in here somewhere. Highly unprofessional taking a day off after three whole months."

The form came out with a sharp slip and Giovanni shuddered when his thumb cut across the edge and the blood began to flow. He looked up to find Miyamoto studying him carefully.

"I have to get some medicine. You'll have to sign that at the bottom. It's G. I. O…"

"I know how to spell my own name!" he shouted, scribbling furiously over the line and thrusting it toward her. She was smiling again and rubbing her hand against that damned coat. "You would probably feel a lot better if you took that off. You've probably just caught a case of pneumonia. One of our nurses could fix you up right away."

Taking the slip gracefully, she huffed and shook her head. "No. Not with this. I wouldn't trust them with this."

"With 'this.' What is 'this,' exactly?" Perhaps it was his memory of that graceful retreat and a need to get back at her, but he grew bold. "Is it a surgery? It must be. We have the most tested drugs on the planet. And if you merely took that coat off and…"

The buttons looked so loose under her thin fingers. He hadn't taken the time to study her hands that dear night or the damned morning after, but he noticed now that they were painted a porcelain pink. It was strangely appropriate yet sickening to his senses. It was lithe and lovely and laughing just like her.

It was perhaps the most normal thing he saw that day after the coat fell to the floor.

As dark as the room had been, he had been able to take in everything at once – every breath, every word, every shift of his shoes. All at once all he could see was that slightly protruding belly pushing up behind a thin black t-shirt. His face went dry before his mouth followed and his mind stiffened as if he had been presented with a math problem far too complex to figure out. He blinked. He blinked again. He opened his mouth and then managed to look at her face before pushing himself up from his chair.

"I…w…you're…"

"Pregnant." She could have had his paper cut and it would have made her sound more concerned. "I'm pregnant. It happened down in South America." She paused again as if expecting him to object. "I'm having an aspiration in two days. After that, I'll be back in the tech division to analyze some of my findings. I'll be in at seven sharp."

All his bravado disappeared as he sat looking at this sudden and unexpected life in front of him. He swallowed only to find his throat tight and his eyes burning. The thought of him loving Miyamoto came and passed. If he were to own this empire, there could be no love.

And yet…

"Give me back that paper."

"Pardon, Vanni? You're gritting your teeth and I can't quite…"

"You can't…you give it back. Now. Or I'll call in Madame Boss and she'll-"

He had only experienced such speed once in his life when one of his mother's slimy executives had caught him toddling out in the snow at the tender age of eight and called him over to jump on a wheel less skateboard sitting innocently nearby. There was the jump onto the board. There was the shocking sky and the executive's high-pitched laughter. The movement was erased.

And so Miyamoto had stood mere feet from him at one instant and the next was pinning him against the wall behind him. He heard the screeching of the chair's wheels as an afterthought and felt a rush through his body at the feel of her belly on his stomach. It was a wonderful, worrying high.

"There are three high optical zoom cameras in this room. One at the door, one in the clock, and one in between your legs."

"WHAT!?" he exclaimed loudly, beginning to tilt his head down when her palm snapped up jutting and fast, ramming his teeth against his tongue. Mew how he wanted to smack her. Mew how he wanted to fuck her like a Primeape.

"Shush. I have no patience for your ego." She met him eye to eye, her irises as hard as flint. "You speak above a whisper and your mommy will know how you like your hair yanked just as much as your bal-"

"OKAY!" he whispered furiously.

"Too loud." She smirked again though even that was quieter somehow.

"How about this?" he hissed.

She shook her hood and brought that gentle palm down to press against the center of his neck. She did not hesitate. Funny. He was shaking at the knees.

"If your vocal chords aren't moving, you're whispering. If they are moving, then you're speaking. Now…try again."

He blinked and swallowed, frowning at her smug face.

"Fuck you."

"Much better, dear. Now…about the baby…"

"He's _mine_ and don't you dare insult my intelligence by telling me otherwise."

"Intelligence." She gave a single breathy laugh. "We were animals in a cage. There's no nobility here."

She waited a second as if for a response. His mind flew everywhere.

Miyamoto.

Him.

Baby.

Kingdom.

Breasts.

Tongue.

Life.

Sex.

Death.

She moved on without him. Again.

"You have three days to transfer over four hundred grand into my account."

"Are you insane!?" he shouted. Her look darkened. His stiff gaze darted toward the clock. She continued.

"Four hundred grand. Miyamoto Munasai. Three days. Got all that? Three. Days."

"Why on _earth_ would _I_ pay _you_?"

Her face was as harsh as his mother's. "To keep the brat in my body instead of spewed on a doctor's table like a shaken pop."

She spoke the words so calmly that it made his stomach churn.

This unreal thing so shoddily thrown upon him was still, well…_unreal_. It was like asking him to pay a million dollars for the wind or the right to breathe. He wished so desperately that she had just let him sleep.

"Don't talk like that. It's vulgar." He sniffed haughtily though the sound was feeble to his ears. "And I don't respond to blackmail, no matter what the stakes. So I suggest you get your mind out of my pockets and do what you wish with your body and everything in it." He swallowed, his body shaking all the more with his horrible words. "I simply don't have the time."

He had hoped that she would cry…tell him…tell him what exactly? What did he want? What did he need?

Stray hairs from his ponytail scrapped the back of his neck yet, try as he might, he could not focus on the sound of the air conditioner.

What did he want? _What did he want?_

_Power_, said his mind.

_Her_, said his body.

_Nothing_, said his heart.

She stood as still and as vibrantly alive as a painting.

"_Get out_," squeaked his mouth.

The only thought that came into his mind when she pressed her lips over his own is what kind of view his mother would have. His body reacted to her as it always had and he was gone again.

When she pulled back, it was that morning all over again.

Her face turned, his arms shot out. She slipped through his fingers like sand and through his heart like a knife. She took her steps in slow motion. The crinkle of her coat being gathered arrested his attention. And, just like that, the word came through his lips without ever consulting his brain.

"Don't."

She paused. Waiting. Waiting…wanting…

"Don't."

"Three days."

He thought of loving her when the door shut. He pushed the thought away with heavy hands as he shuffled from the desk to a nearby decanter. He downed the absinthe like water. He sputtered. He stood. He glanced at the clock once more.

8:25.

The burn in his throat had never felt so deserved.

* * *

"And may I ask you why you felt the need to leave my service without a word?"

She smiled kindly, all the while knowing the wrong word, the wrong pronunciation, could have her lying in a pool of her own blood. "Forgive me, Madame. I had some personal issues to take care of."

The older woman sipped her absinthe and set it down carefully. "That brat boy hasn't been the same lately…been dragging himself about…"

"Is that any different from the usual, Madame? Sounds as if you shouldn't be worried about him at all."

Madame Boss tapped the heel of her shoes against new carpet. "Do you think that I'm stupid? Do you think that I don't know what you're doing? Are you mocking me, Miyamoto? Tell me now."

If she hesitated, she would die.

If she took too long, she would die.

If she told the truth…

"I think that you're a clever businesswoman who knows when a secret is being kept from her," she said, smiling slowly as a Persian. "So yes…I've been working underground…working with the recordings from South America…"

A single dark brow lifted and regarded her skeptically. Miyamoto stood stiff.

"And?"

"I'm going to need money. A lot of it. And those cameras will have to be shut off."

Madame Boss gripped the arms of her chair.

"It takes a cold cunt to deny a child." No reaction. No blink. No. breath. No sign. "It takes a mighty warm one to sell yourself so easily."

She looked as though she licked a bowl of cream. "What can I say? I keep my legs open wide and my pocket wider."

* * *

She sashayed from the building with her hands buried in her pockets and her mind on the brightness of the green in the trees. The smells of the world – perhaps the world itself – reminded her of a little girl with a shock of red hair and skin like the down of the angels. A girl who deserved so much more than a woman like her could give her.

"Hey."

The gruff voice made her jump and she stopped in her tracks to face the one man whom she had forced from her mind.

Giovanni, ponytail gone and face a hard slab of stone, did not move. "Well? Well?" Such agitation…such…anger? No. Such anticipation. "Well?"

She did not blink at him now. The picking, teasing air had been vacuumed right out of her. "I did what I thought was best at the time."

His nose scrunched. His brow fell.

"You…you were spending the money the very next day!"

She took her next steps and was surprised when he stood in her way. "Well," she said, chuckling on the inside and dying so much on the inside that her lungs hurt holding the sob. "Someone's grown up."

"My money, Miyamoto. You promised. You promised. What were you telling my mother? _What did you tell her, damn it!?_"

Shaking her. Little gullible, gangly-legged Giovanni was _shaking_ her. She couldn't stand it. She felt a tear fall down her face and tore away from him half wild. And she ran and she ran and she ran some more, all the while her throat seizing and her heart, whatever there had been of it, longing to close the door to this world and hold her child once more.

The latest Rocket executive, the son of Madame Boss, the lonely one kept screaming at her. "My money, you slut! That was my money!"

Trees blurry, world shaking, she ran on.

She didn't quite ever stop.

Not quite.

* * *

**A/N**: What is this I don't even…


End file.
